


Circumstantial Evidence

by abbyleaf101



Series: Circumstances Dictate (a Lewislock crossover) [2]
Category: Lewis (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddles, Everyone is shipping you don't you know, Falling asleep on you, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbyleaf101/pseuds/abbyleaf101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its the end of a long, hard case - Lewis hasn't been home in days and he is thoroughly looking forward to leaving the station, having a pint with Hathaway and then going home to sleep for the foreseeable future. <br/>Procedure, however, has other ideas, and they find themselves locked in over night in order to practice "lockdown procedure" - the guests from Scotland Yard included. However will any of them survive the night.</p>
<p>Heart to hearts are had, but still not with Hathaway, Lestrade makes a friend, and Hathaway gets some sleep... </p>
<p>Part 2 in a series of undetermined length. Each story is contained as its own little related moments</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circumstantial Evidence

**Author's Note:**

> Second attempt at writing both Lewis and Sherlock - feedback is very much welcome! Especially in regards to my grasp of Lewis and his characterisation. More is on the way, once I find more inspiration...
> 
> My usual beta is busy ~being a grown up~ so apologies for any mistakes or inconsistencies; they are entirely my own.

Procedure often felt like that bane of good police work; especially the little bit of procedure that stated the entire station must be involved in an unscheduled assessment of “the appropriate course of action in a lockdown situation”. Most frustrating, however, was the fact that this lockdown practise had happened at half past ten at night, their guests from Scotland Yard still on the premises, while Lewis hadn’t been home for nearly 36 hours. Hathaway had been here for even longer – shooing Lewis off to his orthopaedic mattress after he fell asleep at his desk again – and he had been thoroughly looking forward to a shower and his bed. Maybe even a pint with Hathaway, in the pub or on his sofa. It didn’t really matter; just a chance to relax, to spend time together, content that their job was done, for today at least.   
At least Hathaway had managed a smoke break within the hour before lockdown had been called – or else things would have been a lot more fraught then they currently are; once everyone had established who was in the building, if there was any intruders or threats on the premises and that all exists and entrances where thoroughly locked, everyone converged in the foyer, piled onto the sofas and chairs there, many people pressed closer than social convention would normally allow. Hathaway, of course, is lurking in a corner, face blank except for the occasional quirk when he made eye contact with Lewis. Innocent is sitting on a small side table, evidentially deciding to forego awkwardly perching on a sofa next to a virtual stranger; Hobson is sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, head in her hands, nodding tiredly.   
Lewis spends a moment from his space on the sofa closest to Hathaway’s corner observing the London lot – Sherlock has declared an arm chair for the three of them, and John is sitting in it, already blinking groggily; Sherlock is looming over him like some dark guardian angel. Lestrade is standing just to the side, leaning against the wall and the side of the chair but apparently mostly awake. Neither of them have spoken for a while – Holmes appears to deem them all beneath his notice (everyone except John and someone called Mrs Hudson who is not their housekeeper are, with Lestrade’s general purpose appearing to be a useful third party for him to insult) and John, probably exhausted by Holmes’ lack of sleep, had remained mostly withdrawn and content wherever he could find a few moments rest. Lewis pities the mortal who tires to wake John when he invariably falls asleep – Lewis has learnt that Holmes is protective of John to a mildly concerning degree.   
After a few hours of staring into space, Lewis grows tired of inactivity and stands to find something – anything – to keep him awake. Suddenly his office seems like the height of comfort.  
“Come on then,” he grunts, and Hathaway has fallen into step behind him without a word, footsteps echoing in the empty corridor as they walk. Lewis lowers himself slowly into his chair, and waves away Hathaway’s concerned frown; now is not the time. “Nothing to be done about it anyway,” Lewis continues, when Hathaway does not look convinced. There isn’t much in their office to keep them occupied, but it still feels preferable to sitting in the overcrowded foyer, and Hathaway feels much closer here – real, and very much more like his Sergeant, his friend, than some distant, celestial figure he cannot touch.   
They sit together, in silence. Hathaway’s fingers bounce against his leg in a way that signals a craving for a smoke, his guitar, or both; neither are easily fixable; hopefully the poor lad will simply crash somewhere out of the way before he grows too irritable. Especially with that damned Holmes man still lurking around. It seems unlikely, though, considering everything he knows about the man. He curses lockdown procedure requiring all windows to remain shut, and laws that prevent in-case-of-an-emergency indoor smoking. The smell is much preferable to a jittery Hathaway.  
A collection of quiet minutes pass when there is a tentative knock on the door; Lewis turns and sees Detective Inspector Lestrade standing in the doorway. “Sorry to bother you,” he says, “but John’s fallen asleep and Sherlock is still playing watchman. Mind if I join you?” He looks incredibly lonely, and run down, and Lewis nods and gestures him in. Hathaway murmurs a greeting, and Lewis sees that he’s fished a book out from somewhere and has hunkered down in his chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle; Lewis looks back at Lestrade and thinks briefly that this is what he would have been, without Hathaway – a little adrift, a lot hopeless, dedicated to the job in a different way to Lewis; its all he has. At least at the end of the day, Lewis has Hathaway to turn to. For a drink down the pub, a quiet smile, a night of research.  
Lestrade nods to the edge of Lewis’ desk and Lewis nods back.   
“Go ahead,” he says; no harm done sitting there, and it’s better than standing. They don’t talk – they don’t really know each other, and Lewis isn’t in the mood for small talk. Its one of his favourite things about his partnership with Hathaway, actually; he doesn’t feel the need to fill a silence. They’re fairly content to sit, listening to their breathing and the soft rustle of Hathaway turning a page in his book. People slowly begin to drift past as Hathaway startles a little and stands, stretching his back in one long roll. He slopes off, head down, and Lewis realises that at some point over the last hour he’s put his earphones in. They share a small smile and then Hathaway disappears into the corridor; he takes his book with him. Lewis turns back towards Lestrade and is surprised by the bitter smile there, a twisted little thing as he shrugs one shoulder.   
“He seems a good sort,” Lestrade says, finally, dropping his gaze to his knees.   
“James? One of the best.” He lets the silence rest for a moment, and then nods towards the door, “Do you not have one of your own, then?”  
Lestrade laughs. “I have a Sergeant. Sally Donovan, her name is. Brilliant copper, if stubborn… comes with the territory, I s’pose. Can be a good thing, sometimes. As for a genius – I have Sherlock. He’s enough for anybody.” They purposely ignore the obvious – that Sherlock has John.   
“When me wife died,” Lewis says, surprising himself, “And me own DI, too… I’d just come back from a placement in the Virgin Isles – someplace warm and in the sun – when James turned up. Wasn’t sure what to make of him, at first; a bit odd, a bit clever. He took a risk, though – risked demotion to uniform – and offered me first refusal. I think he saved me, a little bit.”   
Lewis doesn’t say from what, but Lestrade nods, like he understands. “I think… it looks as if you save him a little, too.” Lewis doesn’t reply, but he supposes its true; he thinks about Zoe Kenneth and a burning house. He thinks about secrets, and lies, and then he thinks about Chloe Brooks, about Laura’s nod and “Robbie’ll look after him”. He wonders about the strange, old-young man he sees every day and is scared, for a moment, of a life without him.   
“Maybe,” Lewis agrees.   
“I wish I had someone to save me,” Lestrade says, and then Hathaway is back, and the Inspector leaves – returns to limbo, not one thing, not the other. 

 

When Lewis and Hathaway return to the foyer, it is almost empty; most people have drifted off into smaller groups, bunked down in offices or between desks, sharing the stashes of food or drink they can find – one young officer has been ushered into the nearest restroom – first day on the job and an emergency shut down, shortly followed to Holmes and his big mouth. Said man is nowhere to be found, and John is also absent, although Lestrade is curled up in the armchair the shorter man had occupied, apparently sleeping. Innocent and Hobson have claimed the two seater sofa, and Lewis and Hathaway take the other one, allowing Hathaway to leans backwards and stretches out fully; Laura and Innocent follow the line of his body and Lewis scowls at them lightly – dishy Sergeant Hathaway indeed. A young man – younger than Hathaway – recently promoted to Sergeant has fallen asleep wedged into a corner; the poor lad has been assigned to run between any DI in the station who needs an extra pair of hands until he can be assigned to someone.   
He turns back and feels Hathaway’s gaze on him – he quirks an eyebrow and Hathaway’s smirk is held almost entirely in his eyes.   
“No,” he says, and Hathaway’s smirk grows until its just touching his mouth – Laura coughs something about them being married, and Lewis rolls his eyes at her.   
“How’s Lynn?” Innocent asks, and the next few minutes are taken up with talk of the baby, and her husband, and reminders to eat fewer ready meals and drink fewer pints; James reminds him he still needs to book a train to Manchester, and he gripes good naturedly about getting Hathaway to drive him instead, in punishment for such obvious insubordination. He knows Hathaway would do it anyway, if he asked.   
No-one asks about Hathaway’s family, and he seems happy with that – everyone knows not to broach some subjects with him. Lewis looks at Hathaway and finds the man happy to sit and listen, smiling at Innocent’s exasperation with her husband and grinning at Hobson recounting tails of her own old friends, her new ones; gushing quietly over an old University friend’s new boyfriend, how gentle and loving. It feels almost perfect, just the four of them, and even the occasional snuffle from the sleeping Sergeant as he slides further down the wall seem normal. Hathaway has put his earphones back in, and Lewis can hear the faint shadow of music. They are all quiet for a few moments, until there is the noise of commotion just down the hall; Innocent excuses herself, and Lewis finds himself looking at Hobson. He realises it must look odd, he and Hathaway – they’re both relaxed, at ease. Its familiar, this gesture, although it usually only happens tucked safely away in Lewis flat. Hathaway’s eyes are closed, and his fingers have stopped their tapping on his knee; he’s falling asleep. Lewis is glad – Hathaway needs it, probably hasn’t gotten more then a few twenty minute cat naps over the last five days, and there’s no way he would take tomorrow off.  
Laura smiles, softly. She’s looking at them both, fondly – he wonders what she sees, and then wonders if it even really matter; they know what they are, who they are. Lewis realises he’s content with his life. He can’t pin-point when it happened, but he’s glad. It’s probably Hathaway’s fault; things usually are, nowadays. He opens his mouth to say something when she stands up and nods to the door, saying she’s getting a glass of water – he asked for one himself, and “one of Sleeping Beauty too”.   
While she’s gone – and when it takes longer than ten minutes Lewis theorises she’s met Innocent somewhere along the way – Lestrade shifts a little in his seat. He represses a full yawn and releases a little gust of hair instead, makes it half way through a full body stretch and then just collapses back into his chair. One side of his face is lined from leaning on his hands, and the hair at the back is mussed and sticking out at odd angles. All is silent for a while, and Lewis feels Hathaway fall into a proper sleep – some of the tension slips from the line of his body and he slips to the side, until their shoulders are pressed firmly together; there’s no carefully held nervousness in Hathaway’s legs – he’s no longer getting ready to jerk away at the smallest sign of discomfort.   
The young, nameless Sergeant jerks awake suddenly, in the middle of a bitten-off cry; he darts quick eyes are the room and settles when he spots Lestrade; the self-deprecating smile and shrug of his shoulders. Lestrade rolls his eyes – and isn’t that an expression Lewis recognises, in reaction to Hathaway’s deadpan delivery – and flings his suit jacket over to him. The young man takes it and slips it over his shoulders; he’s only a slim slip of a lad, thin like James but without the height, and the jacket dwarfs him. Lestrade finally stands and gestures to the seat – the young Sergeant gratefully curls up in it, legs tucked into his chest, and Lestrade wanders away in search of coffee (and maybe Holmes). He falls asleep soon after, and Lewis pretends not to see the bittersweet sadness in Lestrade’s expression as he passes them, eyes full of what could be.   
Eventually, Hobson and Innocent return; they’re clutching bottled water and pass two over, carefully navigating around Hathaway’s long legs. Hathaway has started making soft snuffling noises and suddenly Lewis’ left side a good deal warmer than it was before – Hathaway has slumped over in his sleep and his head has come to rest on Lewis’ shoulder. Glancing at him, Lewis’ first thought is worry that the awkward position would give Hathaway an awful neck crick, but thankfully most of the lads height was in his legs – nudging at him a little made his shuffle over until he wasn’t contorted into quite so strange an angle – even if it did mean James had to lean more of his weight onto Lewis.  
He becomes aware of Hobson and Innocent in his peripheral vision and winces a little; turning away from Hathaway, he faces them – no point trying to hide. Innocent appears stuck somewhere between mildly disturbed and five seconds away from verbally cooing. Hobson has skipped right past the disturbed part and gone onto staring at them (mostly Hathaway) with an expression usually reserved for small, fluffy animals and young children. Oddly enough, Lewis didn’t feel the need to move, or wake Hathaway, or make excuses; he was quite content to look back at them calmly while James slept. He does hope no-one else walks in, though.   
“Detective Inspector Lewis,” Innocent begins, blankly, “You know I cannot –“   
Hobson snorts; “Please, Jean – like half the station doesn’t already suspect something; besides, our Hathaway is a complicated man. He knows what he’s doing. Even if there is something going on there, it isn’t making any difference. No-one cares.”   
“Even so,” she begins, with a glance to the young Sergeant still snoring in the arm chair.   
“Holmes would already have told everyone,” Lewis points out, finding that at least the man’s complete honesty is useful for something. He sits and wonders what would happen if someone did complain, and finds it isn’t as scary as it should be; he’ll miss the work, and life will be a struggle without it. But You go, I go comes back to him, quietly – somehow a life without James seems scarier than a life without the force. When did that happen?  
“Do you…” Innocent begins, and trails off. Lewis raises an eyebrow at her.   
“Do I what?” he asks archly, and Laura giggles; Innocent and Lewis turn and look at her, and she shakes her head.   
“You sound just like your Sergeant,” she says, and he grins a little sheepishly and rubs awkwardly at the back of his head. Perhaps he does; somehow he can’t see this as a bad thing.   
“To answer your none question,” Lewis continues, “No, I do not want to bed my Sergeant. No, I have no plans to do so in the near future. I do not imagine James wants to bed, me, either.”   
Innocent nods, looking relieved. 

At some point over the next fifteen minutes, Hathaway shifts; he curls up more tightly, obviously deeply asleep; one of his long-fingered hands curls around the edge of Lewis’ jacket, holding it tightly in a fist as he makes soft, snuffling noises. Hathaway whines and his eyebrows furrow as he shifts restlessly; Lewis smooths a hand down his back in reassurance.  
“You’re all right, lad,” he murmurs, until Hathaway stills and relaxes again, although his grip on Lewis’ jacket remains fixed in place. Lewis knows his expression is incredibly gentle; its probably showing all the fondness he has for James, without any of the exasperation he usually covers it with. Similar to the expression he worse while Hathaway was lying in a hospital bed – hopefully none of the pain and fear is visible, none of the startling realisation of just how much he cares about the idiot. He thinks it must be there all the time now, the knowledge that he’d risk his life (and had, and would again) for him, and his job, and had invited him into his life as easily as into his house.  
Finally, content that Hathaway has settled and is comfortable, he relaxed into the sofa with a deep yawn – the case is catching up to him, and the lack of activity accompanied by the warm weight of James against his side is making him drowsy. Feeling eyes on him, he turns and looks to find Innocent and Hobson are regarding them with soft looks; Hobson is smiling at him, eyes suspiciously bright – he hasn’t shown affection like that towards someone since Val died, since Lynn moved away. Innocent just looks awed, touched, and she gifts him with a little grin before excusing herself. Lewis knows that she has taken to Hathaway in an almost Motherly fashion – is extremely fond of him, and Lewis is glad for the moment that he can ease some of her worry for him. The lad deservers more – so much more – than anything he can offer him, but at least he isn’t alone for now. He has somewhere to turn, if he needs it. And he always will. 

 

Lewis wakes up in an hour and realises Hathaway has almost fallen off the sofa, one of his long legs falling off in his sleep-relaxed sprawl. Thankfully, he has released his grip on Lewis’ jacket, making it much easier for the Inspector to slip out from under him and manhandle him back into place to let the lad sleep. His back protests a little, but he ignores it; hopefully a good night’s sleep tomorrow will fix it. He shakes off the urge to drape his jacket over Hathaway’s shoulders, but can’t get rid of the urge to smooth down Hathaway’s hair and squeeze his shoulder. Hobson has fallen asleep, curled up tightly on the two seater – at some point, someone has fetched her coat and laid it over her. When Lewis turns around, he finds that the young Sergeant is watching him; he immediately straightens his shoulders and readies himself in defense. Instead, he finds the young man’s eyes are merely sad, and a little lost. He seems to be unconsciously running his fingers over Lestrade’s jacket.   
“You’re lucky,” he says, nodding to where Hathaway is sleeping. “Don’t mess it up.” With that, he turns around again; Lewis can see the curled line of his shoulders, the pale skin of his neck – the way he’s huddled up under the jacket as if it’s the only comfort he’ll ever have. Lewis’ brain starts ticking into overdrive, and he makes a note to speak to Innocent while he’s still in her good books.   
Hopefully, there will only be a few more hours until the lockdown situation is called off, and they can all carry on with their lives. Hathaway is already stirring from his sleep and Lewis makes sure he’s close when his Sergeant’s eyes open – he knows Hathaway hates feeling vulnerable and appearing without his armour. His Sergeant eventually struggles himself upright and smiles; Lewis pats his shoulder briefly and feels privileged to receive the genuine smile James sends him, honoured to be allowed to see inside the walls Hathaway carefully builds up around himself, knowing Hathaway doesn’t believe he needs them around his Inspector. Trust is a precious thing, and not something Lewis intends to risk. His phones tells him it’s nearly 5am and he is suddenly beyond exhausted; Hathaway yawns one final time and smirks at him; he rolls his eyes back and they fall into step. Lewis gives the young Sergeant one final look before they leave the room.   
“His name is Thomas,” Hathaway says. “Sergeant Jack Thomas.”   
Lewis grins. “Come on then, sleepyhead.”

They retire to the relative safety of their office until their freedom is announced; they plan to stay there until the morning comes properly, but Hobson appears soon after and quirks a finger at them, grinning mischievously. Lewis follows her, feeling very much like a schoolboy as they tip toe through the station towards a shadowy office somewhere in the back. There’s a large crowd, and Hobson pushes her way through armed with a smile and the knowledge she could probably kill them all and not leave a trace.   
Once the three of them reach the front, it becomes immediately obvious what all the fuss is about; John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are curled up under a desk in a position that can only be described as cuddling; John is propped upright against the desk, legs stretched out in front of him. Sherlock is sitting in John’s lap, arms wrapped rightly around his waist and face tucked in John’s neck so that the long lone of Sherlock’s back is exposed. John’s face is exasperated even in sleep, but the tenderness of his hands against Sherlock’s back belay how much feeling is held there; one of the uniforms laughs, a little loudly, and Sherlock shifts; automatically, John’s hand moves to cradle Sherlock’s head, fingers moving softly through the curls until they both settle again. Lewis looks at Hathaway and finds the Sergeant’s expression has suddenly gone gentle and open; feeling like an intruder, Lewis snaps his fingers and the crowds disperse, muttering and grumbling under their breaths but unwilling to question Lewis’ authority, especially with Innocent at his shoulder.   
“Off you go,” he encourages, until the final person drifts unhappily away.  
Hathaway stands a little way down the corridor, waiting for Lewis, and the Inspector bumps their shoulders together gently as they walk. You’re all right, lad, he thinks, as they walk; it strikes him that Hathaway might never have experienced anything like the scene they’ve just witnessed, and it makes him suddenly sad. 

 

At 8am the station is finally released from lockdown – Innocent sends Hathaway and Lewis home and gives the duo strict instructions not to turn up for at least 24 hours, because she’s sick of their faces. She knows that they’ll go back to Lewis’, in all probability; they’ve not had their post-case pint-and-joke yet – neither of them really have anyone else, and she’s be sad for them if they didn’t look so damned content when around each other. Perhaps Hathaway has a middles ages heart, or maybe Lewis’ is young – she thinks its more likely that they’re just well suited. Something poetic about complimentary souls, or halves of a whole – she really, really needs to sleep, if this is what sleep deprivation does.   
“You do realise the dynamic duo are playing match maker?” Hobson asks, with a yawn, as Lestrade and Sergeant Thomas nervously hands back the older man’s jacket and the Inspector accepts and goes faintly pink. Eventually they walk off together, talking a little awkwardly but with tentative smiles.  
“Yes,” Innocent smiles. “One might think they’re going soft in their old age.”

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title refers to the "circumstantial evidence" of Lewis and Hathaway's apparent relationship
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
